The Winter King
Page 7

Wynter cast a cold, keen, wary gaze around the courtyard, missing nothing. The sound from up high a few minutes ago had set him on edge. He’d shot an Ice Gaze at the would-be assassin, only to capture instead a dark, unruly-haired servant girl dressed in some noblewoman’s cast-off gown and watching the proceedings in the courtyard with wide gray eyes.
He’d known in an instant she was no assassin. There was something . . . innocent . . . about her. Something intriguing about the wild tumble of black curls streaked with white, like glacial waterfalls frozen against black rock. Well, no matter. He wasn’t here to entertain himself with servants—even the intriguing, pretty ones. Not that she’d willingly come within a hundred yards of him again. Had he held his Gaze a moment longer, he would have frozen her where she stood.
Wynter directed his attention back to the royal family of Summerlea, who had assembled on the palace steps as he’d commanded. King Verdan, his dark, swarthy face as full of false pride as ever, stood at the forefront, clad in full court dress. Still fit after thirty years of kingship and decades of indulgent living, the Summer King boasted a vivid masculine beauty. He was tall and well-muscled, with dark, snapping eyes, rich coloring, and an intrinsic Summer warmth so different than the colder, paler folk of the north.
His son, the prince called Falcon, had been much the same.
Was that foreign warmth the temptation that had lured Elka from her vows?
Behind Verdan, standing as close together as they could without appearing to huddle, waited his three lovely daughters. They were—justly so, Wynter now realized—as famous for their exotic beauty as for their Summerlea gifts. What their real names were, he neither knew nor cared. They were easy enough to identify by their giftnames: Spring, the eldest, a tall, cool beauty with bright green eyes and inky hair straight as falls of snowmelt pelting down a cliff side; Summer, the middle daughter, whose thick waves of blue-black hair and summer blue eyes promised a warmth long lacking in the Craig; and the youngest, Autumn, a haughty, exquisite creature of breathtaking beauty, blessed with loose, flowing ringlets of a rare, deep auburn that set off her pansy purple eyes to perfection. These were Summerlea’s greatest treasures: the three Seasons, beloved daughters of the Summer King.
The corner of Wynter’s mouth curled in a faint smile. This victory would not be without its pleasures.
“King Verdan.” He turned his gaze upon the former ally whom he’d spent the last three years bringing to heel. “I have come, as I vowed when last we met on the field of battle, to issue the terms of peace and claim what is my due.”
Summerlea’s ruler nodded stiffly. “I am prepared to receive and meet your demands.”
“Are you? Good.” Wynter gestured to the white-cloaked army behind him. “First, you will quarter my men. Your Steward of the Keep will escort my Steward of Troops, Lord Arngildr, on a tour of the city and palace defenses. He will deploy my men throughout the city . . . to discourage any courageous acts of rebellion your loyal followers might entertain,” he added with a cold, knowing smile.
Verdan flushed but did not look away.
“You will quarter me as well,” Wynter continued. “Richly. With a warm bath and a hot meal to refresh me after my journey. And one of your beloved daughters . . .” He perused the three princesses and settled on the haughty beauty with the flashing purple eyes. “Autumn, I think . . . to share my meal.” Again he smiled, without a hint of warmth. “To discourage any . . . overspicing.”
“Very well,” Verdan bit out, not rising to the bait. “We have prepared a suite for you. Luxurious in every appointment. You will not be disappointed.”
“Won’t I? I understand the rooms you have prepared for me once belonged to your son, Prince Falcon.” He enjoyed the shock on Verdan’s face and the quick, panicked flicker of his eyes. Let him wonder how the Winter King had learned that bit of news. “Did you really think I would rest in the bedchamber of the thief who stole my bride and murdered my heir?” Just the mention of that terrible day brought the memory of it back in vivid color. White. The color of fresh-fallen snow. Spruce green. The color of Wintercraig’s forest and Garrick’s hunting leathers. Red. The color of Garrick’s blood. So much blood. Blue. The color of the sky, of Garrick’s sightless eyes, and of the Summerlea prince’s arrow rising up from Garrick’s throat.
Wynter’s jaw tightened. The now-familiar burn of power sparked at the backs of his eyes. If he unleashed what lived inside him, he could kill every living thing in the city in a matter of minutes.
“I—but—” Verdan clamped his lips closed and gathered his composure. He bowed. “Then, of course, we will make other preparations.”
Wynter blanked the signs of temper from his face. “I understand the upper levels of your tower are unoccupied.” He nodded at the stone edifice behind the Summer King. The servant girl was gone from the small oriel above. “I will take those.”
“The tower has been unoccupied for years. It has fallen into a state of disrepair. Surely—”
“Consider it a test of your willingness to please me. Your servants have six hours to see to it. Clean, well-appointed rooms, a warm bath, and a hot meal,” he repeated. “And your daughter, the princess Autumn, with a pleasant smile on her face, to dine with me. While you see it done, I will tour the city with Valik and your steward.”
“But . . . the war . . . your terms for peace?”